He growls with amusement as he delicately tugs on her pigtail. A whimper escapes her.
“Even if they throw gigantic rocks or pound at the walls with their hundreds of giant fists, snarling for what is inside, they cannot break this room. No matter how much they want you, no matter how much they scream and beg for you, no matter what force they use, and no matter how strong they may be, they cannot break in to get near you.” He kisses her forehead and smiles. “That is why I built this for you. To keep you safe. So, no. This room will never fall on us.”
She bites the inside of her mouth and twirls her thumbs, wanting to vomit up the nausea inside of her.
He leans over and knocks on the wall. A knock is returned a second later.
His smile turns sinister.
“It is simply these walls creaking back at you. A room can only be so strong and yet so perfect. I’ll have this fixed right away, my sweet. You don’t have to worry anymore.” He squeezes her fidgeting hand. “The creaking will no longer bother you.”
“The scratch,” she corrects him in a whisper.
“Yes . . . the scratch will no longer bother you.”
He gets up and starts to leave.
“Daddy?” she asks.
“Yes?”
“Is that dress for me?”
He stops a few feet away from the door and turns back to her. He places his fingertips on the fabric laid across his shoulder, a wink of forgetfulness flashing across his face.
“No. Not for today, Vanilla,” he replies.
He turns back around and leaves, snapping the lock shut behind him.
She rests the side of her head against the wall, staring at the door, unsure of what to do next. She closes her eyes for a moment, thumbs chasing each other.
Slowly, her thumbs curl with her fingers into her palm and she knocks on the wall.
Nothing.
She scratches her fingernails against the concrete.
Nothing.
She sighs and slumps, accepting the nothingness. She looks up. The cracks in the ceiling look as though they are getting larger—or maybe it is just her imagination. Maybe it is just her thoughts wandering off into dangerous parts, wondering about possibilities other than nothingness.
Wondering what would be worse: if the ceiling collapsed and crushed her . . . or if the Outside got in.
CHAPTER X
Nothing.
She growls and picks up the syringe.
Inject. Press.
Drum to chest.
Nothing.
Nothing . . . nothing?! Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothingnothingnothingnothing!
She snarls through clenched teeth and squishes the dog down to half its size between her hands. Each muscle in her face tightens, her eyelids squeeze shut, and she directs all of her strength into her fingers, grunting with every ounce of pressure, feeling the cotton scrunch within the sack of dirty blue fabric. The dog doesn’t make a sound beneath the punishment. It accepts it, adapts to it by shrinking beneath her force, although she expects at some point to hear a pop!